Letters
by SherlockIsBored
Summary: School was the same as ever for a teenage Sherlock Holmes. As he started back from Christmas break there had only been one new addition. A short, stocky boy with light blond hair and a kind face had joined the school; he was intent on becoming Sherlock's friend. As they became acquainted, Sherlock grew more and more suspicious of the strange letters being posted into his locker.
1. Introductions

At the age of 15, Sherlock was proud to say he had lived his entire life alone. Whether there were people around him or not was irrelevant; in his mind he was separate from the rest of society, keeping in touch with them on occasion out of necessity. This was easier said than done as despite his constant complaints from the age of five; his parents had insisted he finish school and get a good degree somewhere. Sherlock disliked this idea for several reasons – he felt as though he was qualified enough without having to go to university, but he reluctantly accepted that most people wouldn't be bothered hanging around waiting for him to prove it.

He was returning to school in early January after a particularly uneventful Christmas break. His classes were ever so boring as he'd already taught himself the courses over the summer – the ones that he took an interest in at least. Physics and Chemistry were a necessity to Sherlock as science was his chosen field (and his favourite pastime). He also took Modern Studies and Music as he had a mild interest in the law and enjoyed playing the violin. His fifth and Sixth subjects were Maths and English as they were compulsory, much to his distaste. Luckily this was only a three day week – Monday was the 1st of January so they were allowed an extra two days holiday, starting back on the 3rd on Wednesday.

Sherlock unsurprisingly found that school hadn't changed in the two weeks he'd been absent; there was only one small addition. As he walked into his first period class on Wednesday, a boy Sherlock didn't recognise was sitting in the seat next to his. In most classes the seat next to Sherlock remained empty for the year, as he and others preferred.

"Evidently he hasn't been warned", Sherlock thought bitterly, pulling his chair to the opposite side of the desk. Everybody knew to avoid Sherlock Holmes.

As the boy sat there listening intently to the lesson and occasionally glancing at Sherlock with curious eyes, Sherlock began to deduce. The boy came from a poor background; his clothes were old and looked as though they had never even seen an iron, and his shoes were torn and muddy from what looked like years of use. They were quite possibly the only shoes he had. He had been transferred, due to bullying perhaps, as there was definitely something that put this boy on edge – he sat folded in on himself, trying to seem as though he was very small, invisible maybe. Despite this, he had a good built and Sherlock could tell he would probably do well in a fight. Even so, the boy came across to Sherlock as quite shy and timid; it wasn't until the end of class he decided to speak.

"Hello", the boy hesitated. "I'm John Watson". Sherlock looked at the boy, John, with the disinterested expression he always held so well. It masked his shock - people didn't usually speak to him; he was _Sherlock Holmes_.

"Sherlock Holmes", he replied, grimacing. Swiftly, before John could try to say anything else, Sherlock flung his bag over his shoulder and hurried along the corridor to his next class. "He obviously hasn't spoken to a soul since he arrived here. Why would the first person he tries to befriend be _Sherlock Holmes_?" Sherlock scoffed. Funnily enough, after Sherlock's ever cold and abrupt manner, they didn't speak again.

Over the course of the week Sherlock kept a wandering eye on the boy called John, who appeared to be in almost every class Sherlock had except Physics. John had started to make friends with a small group of people who were modest, intelligent (though nothing extraordinary next to Sherlock), and liked to keep to themselves. Sherlock was glad he seemed to be fitting in somewhere; he dreaded to think of what his own life would be like if John Watson had decided to be his friend.

Luckily for Sherlock, his life had returned to its dull routine. By day he would attend his classes, spending any free time between the library's limited collection of books and the science department where he had created his own lab space in the corner of the technician's room. The teacher's never bothered him either – the letter from his parents explaining his need for space (and less human interaction) had made it clear to the school that Sherlock was not up for negotiation when it came to his important scientific work. By night, he would stay up far too late reading about the elements, deduction and all things that suited his extraordinary mind. However, he was still human and he learned to regret it the next morning when he groggily pulled himself from bed, vowing to go to sleep earlier that night.

His home life was a similar story; his family were fairly well off and so to stop his near-constant complaining, his parents allowed his bedroom and Mycroft's old room next door to be merged to create a living space with a built in lab. This was all agreed under one important condition; all of his experiments must be carried out in safe conditions. In his earlier years his parents had often worried for his and their safety, reminding him every so often of the time he carelessly left a small assortment of poisons on their kitchen table.

As well as chemistry, Sherlock had more recently developed an affinity for solving crimes. He wasn't trusted to go very far from his home alone, mainly because he had nobody to go anywhere with, but also because he had always been a magnet for danger. As a substitute, he sat in the front room with nothing but the space in his head to solve puzzles and riddles alike, but still nothing interested him more than crimes. At first, his parents had thought it entertaining, but before long it began to consume Sherlock, which worried them more than anything.

Naturally, this made no changes to the way Sherlock behaved as his parents worried as parents do, usually for insignificant reasons in Sherlock's mind, as he had felt almost entirely responsible for himself from the age of eleven. When he was younger he hadn't connected with his peers, which was unsurprising when he regularly reminded them of how stupid they all were. This was a concern to his parents because, although they could tell he was different from other children, they just wanted him to feel as though he was accepted. Despite their best efforts, he never had. He was alone in his world and he had always been okay with that because he was Sherlock Holmes and that's how life was.

The only person he could relate to (and he resented himself for it), was his brother Mycroft. Mycroft was as Sherlock was when it came to intelligence, though Sherlock would never admit it. His parents were proud of his brother, who (at the age of twenty-three) held a 'minor position in the British government' – his and Sherlock's interest clearly lay in different places. Sherlock though of his brother as arrogant, snobby and far too proud, but he refused to call himself a hypocrite, much to Mycroft's annoyance. He was always annoyed about something, so Sherlock didn't see the point in being any nicer to him; it wouldn't make a difference.

His parents gave in to many of his pleas, but they had raised him with a firm hand and he knew when he pushed things too far. They were respectful of the fact that he was 'different', and Sherlock was polite and as courteous as he could be, but he hated the mundane lifestyle his parents held him to, and he made sure they knew that.

"How was your first week back then dear?" his Mother asked warily as they sat round the dinner table that Friday night. She was used to his attitude when it came to school.

"Dull. And unbearably slow".

"Come on now Sherlock, you have to at least try. You won't enjoy anything if you don't put in the effort to", his father objected.

"What is there to enjoy? The same boring routine day in, day out, surrounded by people I don't like, learning things that I already know? There is no point in that." Sherlock folded his arms defensively, glaring at his plate.

"Sherlock, don't speak to your Father like that. You know we only want the best for you."

"Then why don't you let me do what I want?"

"Because you don't always know what's right – you're still our son Sherlock; we need to look after you, no matter how much you disagree." His mother sighed and started to clear the table. "Now, go up to your room and do your homework."

Sherlock glared at his mother in protest from under his thick mop of curly hair.

"Please?" She added.

"Fine" he gave in grumpily. He couldn't be bothered arguing tonight – he had to complete his experiment and he didn't want to waste any energy that could be spent on thinking.

But once he was in his room he couldn't concentrate. His experiment was almost too complicated for him to handle as he'd used up too much blood digesting his dinner; his book wasn't holding his interest; his violin was too loud for night time according to his parents, and he didn't know what to do. It was dark outside, but he turned out all the lights in his room except for the one by his bed and strode to the far side of the room. The city of London was beautiful, and Sherlock wanted to get out there and explore as much of it as he could. Unfortunately he wasn't trusted – his parents spent far too much time worrying about him getting killed. They were awfully dramatic.

He sat down on the windowsill that overlooked the street below, watching the cars drive slowly by. Then he looked up and started at the moon, alone in the sky – it was too cloudy for stars. And at that moment in time Sherlock felt at one with the moon. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was lonely.


	2. London

The night passed quickly for Sherlock, and he woke earlier than usual. It was 8am. He got up slowly, stretching awkwardly feeling stiff from his uncomfortable position on the windowsill, and settled on his bed for a while until the rest of the house was awake. After a considerable amount of time he glanced up from his book to look at the chemical-themed calendar his parents had brought him for Christmas.

 **Saturday, January 6** **th**

 **"** Shit" Sherlock exclaimed more loudly than he should have. He wasn't even remotely prepared for this.

Sherlock had forgotten that it was his birthday. He must have deleted it, he concluded sulkily. He'd never seen it as a big deal; everyone aged yearly, why should it be considered something special? His parents however, disagreed. He waited until he could hear movement, and then as slowly as was humanly possible, he crept downstairs to his awaiting doom.

"Oh Happy Birthday love" Sherlock's mother hugged him tightly the moment he stepped into the room. He hugged her back hesitantly; he didn't want to offend the woman but he did not want to hug her either. Everyone was all hugs and happiness. It was awful. Sherlock was glad to know that Mycroft was an exception to this rule. He didn't think he could stop himself laughing if Mycroft showed up at the front door and called him 'love'.

Their living room was ridiculously decorated with bright blue banners that read 'Happy 16th Birthday', and a small pile of presents that rested in Sherlock's armchair in the corner. He managed to work out what he'd been given before he opened them, but he acted surprised, and though he would never admit it to anyone, he really was quite grateful. He had received a small collection of books (including a map of London), a pocket knife and a modern magnifying glass both bound in a black leather case, a deep blue violin case, and an expensive looking microscope. He thanked them quietly, trying to mask how pleased he was. A few minutes of comfortable silence passed while Sherlock examined his presents and his father made tea for the three of them.

"We have another gift for you that we think you might like." There was a sparkle in his mother's eye when she spoke. Sherlock raised his eyes from his new map and looked at her curiously. He was almost certain he knew what was coming.

"Your father and I have decided that we will allow you some more freedom. You have our permission to travel in and out of London as you please. There's only one condition." Sherlock was overjoyed. He was ecstatic. This was the best news he'd ever received.

"Please Sherlock; promise us you won't go looking for trouble."

"Or Danger" his father interjected, poking his head through from the kitchen. "God knows what sort of mess you'll end up in."

"Of course not" Sherlock exclaimed almost too enthusiastically. He had never been into London on his own before; most people had, but then most people had friends to go with them. Despite this sudden twinge of loneliness he felt, Sherlock was starting to think his day couldn't get any better. He was extremely shocked at himself this morning. Sherlock Holmes was enjoying his birthday. Nothing could ruin his day.

Just then, Mycroft coughed from the doorway.

"Oh, what do you want Mycroft?" Sherlock's smile vanished almost immediately.

"Can't I wish my little brother a Happy Birthday these days? I'm merely stopping by with your present." Mycroft hesitated.

"Could you two boys get on for just one moment?" Their mother spoke with such a tone that neither decided to argue.

"Thank you, Mycroft" Sherlock sighed taking the rather large and bulky package from his brother's arms. He could feel his family's eyes on him as he slowly tore apart the paper: he didn't like that he had absolutely no idea what it could be.

Inside the brown wrapping was something dark and heavy. He lifted it out and held it at arm's length, inspecting it. It was a long, grey, sweeping coat, and as much as he hated to say it – he loved it. It was the sort of thing he could picture himself wearing, walking down the streets of London, his coat billowing behind him. It was marvellous.

"Oh Mike, what a lovely thing to get your brother" their mother flung her arms around him, causing him to wobble on his feet.

"It was… a pleasure" Mycroft Grimaced. Sherlock simply nodded in his direction. It was as much appreciation as he needed.

"Mycroft, would you stay for a cup of tea?" his father asked from the other side of the room, settling himself in his chair.

"I have some urgent government matters to attend to, but thank you for your invitation." He slowly looked round the room at the three of them, kissed his mother on the cheek and left.

"He's always so busy these days" his mother sighed, closing the front door behind him. Sherlock snorted, earning himself a smack round the back of the head. "You go and get yourself dressed boy; you've got a city to explore." Sherlock's eyes gleamed with excitement.

He got ready quickly, deciding to wear his favourite fitted suit, with a fresh white shirt – no tie. He pulled on his coat (which felt more like a cloak) and stood in front of the mirror for a moment and truly appreciated his reflection. He was tall and thin, with piercing blue eyes, cheekbones as sharp as knives, and a mess of curly dark hair. His voice was deep and rumbling; most people assumed he was at least 18, which he could now use to his advantage. He'd already gone about getting himself a fake ID. Not that his parents knew that as they sent him off into the biggest city in the UK.

"Be back before tea, Sherlock, I'm making your favourite."

"Of course" he called, slamming the door shut behind him. He checked his watch. He had roughly 6 hours until his tea. If his maths was correct, which it always was, he would be quickest to walk to the nearest station and catch the next train; this would give him the opportunity to explore the main streets at his own free will, and come back whenever he felt like it. Simple.

Sherlock had been in London so many times before, but the city never failed to enthral him. It was vibrant and full of life, and it made him feel so alive. He was breathing in the world that existed around him and he loved every minute of it. The towering grey walls on either side of the street loomed over him as he followed grubby street signs, trying to map it all out in his head. So far he had covered the main areas surrounding Shaftsbury Avenue, Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, as well as Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. Even the large number of clueless tourists couldn't bother him today. He wasn't sure if it was the freedom or the city that was making him so happy, but he really didn't care.

He darted in and out of small stores, streets, and shops, looking around as though he had opened his eyes for the first time. There were so many small details to take in in such a large city – the takeaway on the corner would be shut down, due to rats probably, in no more than six months; that store worker has recently had a divorce; and the man walking much too slowly in front of him was recovering from an operation on his left knee.

Sherlock immersed himself in his deductions as he scouted the streets for something interesting to do. As he was walking past one particular store, a blue cashmere scarf in the window caught his eye. His mother had always told him that blue was 'his colour', whatever that was supposed to mean. He inspected it slowly; it was long, and looked very soft, and thick. Perfect for winter and it would go so well with his coat. Before he could even stop himself, it was wrapped snugly around his neck, and he was £25 poorer.

Once he was done inspecting himself in the full length mirror, he turned left down the street, before taking a right and then another left. Suddenly, interrupting his peaceful afternoon, his phone buzzed.

 **Remember to be home before tea love x**

It was his mother.

 **Yes.**

 **SH**

His parents worried about him far too much. He was their youngest son, their precious little Sherlock, but they were verging on clingy with the attachment they had formed to him. Sherlock found it frankly alarming. His brother had never gotten so much attention, and though Mycroft was probably grateful, it really wasn't fair on him having to deal with it all. Sherlock loved those quiet moments where he could deduce things, and be at peace, and walk about, and be alone. Alone was always better, and just as safe; today he was proving it.

His mind was filled with all these thoughts, and he suddenly realised he hadn't been paying much attention to where he was going in a city he didn't yet know. Sherlock looked up from the screen in his hand and glanced around him. He was walking past the entrance to a dingy alley that smelled strongly of piss and was littered with broken beer bottles. He began to walk away, when he caught sight of a grubby, unshaven man lying unconscious on the ground only a few feet ahead of him.

As he crouched down over the body, he was hit with the strong smell of alcohol, urine and some sort of chemical, but Sherlock couldn't quite place it. As he inspected the body he suddenly heard footsteps behind him, before a voice called out, "Oi, who are you?"

A boy no older than Sherlock was leaning on the wall with one hand in his pocket and the other hand holding a lit cigarette. He was as well dressed as Sherlock but he looked strangely comfortable in the grubby alley. There was something extremely cocky about his grin.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes", Sherlock sat upright next to the unmoving body, "who are you?"

"I'm Victor Trevor…" the boy stepped forward and held out his hand, lifting Sherlock to his feet. "Is there any chance you can tell me what exactly you're doing?"

Sherlock shot him a sour look. "That's not your business, and quite frankly it's none of mine either", he muttered, turning away from the body. "Might I ask you the same question?"

"Oh I was just passing by; looked like you'd murdered the poor bloke or something. A bit suspicious, let me tell you", the boy laughed and then glanced at the body. "Don't worry about him; he'll be alright in a few hours"

"A few hours? I'd say six at least." Sherlock frowned. He realised now exactly where he was. He'd always been warned to stay away from places like this, as any child had been, but at the same time he was burning with curiosity.

He turned to look down the alley, noticing for the first time a battered black door amongst the stone on one wall. The faint smell coming from the building was not unpleasant but it seemed to draw him in and that scared Sherlock more than he'd care to admit. This boy, Victor, wasn't here by accident, but Sherlock suddenly had a very strong urge to leave. When he turned around Victor was looking at him intently.

"Might I tempt you?" He twiddled the cigarette between his fingers before placing it in Sherlock's hand. "Try it".

Sherlock studied the cigarette between his long fingers and, realising he didn't have much choice, took a drag. As he exhaled he spluttered and choked, and glared at the cigarette in his hand. "Hmm… no thanks" he said to Victor, before turning to walk past him. He didn't want to be in this dingy alley for much longer – he much preferred his own company than that of a strange teenage boy and an unconscious addict.

Victor quickly grabbed his arm and laughed, "not so fast, Sherlock". He handed him a folded piece of paper and smiled, "in case you change your mind… or fancy something stronger." With a wink, he pulled open the door behind him and disappeared.

Without a moment of hesitation Sherlock sped down the quiet street he was on and he did not look back until he was on a busy road surrounded by cars and people and noise. As he tried to put as much distance as he could between himself and the apparent drug den as possible, he could only think of one thing.

Once, only a month or two ago, his father had spoken to him about his rather unhealthy obsession with solving crimes; he had explained to Sherlock something that the teenager hadn't even noticed himself. Cringing at the memory, he remembered what his father had said.

 _"_ _I know the way you work, you know. You're just like your mother; you have an addict's brain. Curiosity consumes you. Please Sherlock; do me a favour and stay away from… from drugs. It will do you no good."_

With these thoughts in mind, Sherlock took off down the street.


	3. Temptations

Sherlock couldn't sleep. He hadn't really eaten either but that was nothing unusual. Sherlock went back to school on Monday with only four hours of sleep in the last two days, but somehow he was functioning almost as normal. Except he wasn't quite normal.

He couldn't stop thinking about Victor Trevor. Even though he had vowed to throw away the boy's number, it had somehow made its way into Sherlock's phone, though he had no memory of putting it there. His brain was working faster than usual, just remembering what had happened two days ago. It didn't matter what he thought of, what he distracted himself with: he was always led back to that alley, to that boy, to the taste of the cigarette on his lips.

He carried his preoccupations into his first class on Monday. Chemistry – this was something he was good at, something he enjoyed and had so much passion for. But he still could not find a distraction. Instead, he just sat his head on the desk and let his worries consume him. It wasn't till he felt someone tap his shoulder that he was awoken from his daze.

"Sherlock… it is Sherlock, isn't it?" John Watson's apprehensive face hovered above him.

"Yes… wait, sorry, what?" Sherlock sat upright, confused.

"I asked if you were alright"

"I'm fine" Sherlock lied smoothly.

"Doesn't look like it to me… long night?" John smiled, even when Sherlock didn't respond. Then, unbelievably, he pulled out the chair beside Sherlock and sat down. "Greg isn't in today, do you mind if I sit here?"

"Yeah, sure, of course…" Sherlock murmured distractedly. He realised that it would be extremely rude to ignore John right now, even if he generally ignored everyone – this was an exception. He wasn't used to people making an effort to befriend him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John's concerned eyes bored into his own, and he couldn't help but look away.

"I suppose it was just a long night" Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"You're not the only one, mate" John nodded in the direction of Anderson, who had started to snore.

"Oh no, don't worry about him, he's always like that" Sherlock smirked, which made John laugh – much to Sherlock's surprise.

The lesson continued in this fashion, with constant conversation and occasional banter about various unimportant things. Yet Sherlock was intrigued. John wasn't put off by his standoffish personality, but rather talked and encouraged him to talk. Sherlock didn't quite know how to handle this experience, because even arguing with Mycroft hadn't prepared him for _small talk_. It was pointless and absurd and he didn't mind one bit. John was interesting. In fact he was the most interesting person Sherlock had ever met, though he hadn't met that many people. From their short conversation, Sherlock had gathered a lot of information about him.

Even in the short three days he'd been at this school, John had become more confident. This was probably due to the immediate acceptance he had received from a few of the people in our classes together, namely a girl Sherlock hadn't really spoken to before, Molly Hooper, and her friend Mary Morstan. A respectable group, if Sherlock said so himself. They always tolerated him, and at times, they'd even been quite nice to him. And they obviously hadn't told John how much of a freak he was, which almost everyone believed.

In their conversation it was apparent that John had a sister, and lived with her and his mother, who didn't sound like a very good parent – she was never there for John, even when he was younger. Sherlock frowned at that thought. Although his clothes would give the impression of complete carelessness, John behaved in every class, and carried himself with some sort of pride. It was almost military; the way he moved and acted, it was all very professional. Unfortunately for Sherlock, he hadn't had managed to work out what it was that still put the boy on edge. There were obviously some troubles at home – John always stiffened when he spoke about his mother – but there were no indicators to what could cause that other than mere dislike.

At the end of the class Sherlock realised he didn't want to stop talking; he wanted to talk to John and find out more about him, to get to know him. And in the same moment he realised what a bad idea that was. This was something he'd avoided his entire life, and now after all this effort, he was starting to let someone in. He was letting his walls come crashing down, even if only for a moment.

"Alone is better than getting hurt." That's what he'd always said, what he'd always been told. He remembered that at the age of six, when he had already been rejected by his peers, Mycroft had sat him down and told him "caring is not an advantage." It had been hammered into him repeatedly by his cold, older brother.

His parents hadn't persuaded Mycroft nor dissuaded him – they were loving parents towards their children but ultimately they weren't the most emotional family you could ever meet. So naturally Sherlock followed the path of his big brother, excluding emotions and isolation while welcoming the idea that almost every human on the planet was an imbecile. When Sherlock had gone to school he had tried to make friends – who ignored him completely because he was far too 'different'. Mycroft, the ever protective older brother, had persuaded him with surprising ease to focus on himself and his academia, and now he was alienated, isolated and more alone than he ever wanted to be.

For the rest of the day Sherlock's brain was even more crowded than it had been that morning – his thoughts of Victor Trevor and cigarettes and "something stronger" had morphed with thoughts of John Watson, and the crippling loneliness that only made his absurd cravings worse. By lunchtime, he sat in his corner of the lab and explored his mind palace, wandering the roads and routes of London. He wandered and he walked but no matter where he went, even in his head, he was always taken back to that alley.

All the effort he had put into not thinking about it had led him to memorising its exact location. He could get there easily, right now if he wanted to. He just had to walk to the local station, it was only 20 minutes away, and then he would be on the train for only 35 minutes; only eleven stops until he reached Euston station, so in under an hour he could be in the heart of London. He would have to walk for quite a while through London, but was that really so much of a big deal? If he got what he wanted? His mind was set.

 **I've changed my mind – I'll take your offer.  
How much for a pack of twenty?**

 **SH**

As he was about to hit 'send', his brother's disappointed face swam in front of his eyes. "You've been a naughty boy, Sherlock…" The memory of Mycroft's condescending tone rang clear in Sherlock's ears after so many years of being treated like a child. He knew his brother would disapprove, and god knows what his Mother would say… but he was itching for a cigarette. He realised having to meet with Victor Trevor again would be the necessary evil to get what he wanted, but he decided that it was a small price to pay.

And then, he thought of John Watson. The kind boy, with the friendly demeanour, who actually wanted to talk to him… would this be letting him down?

"No", Sherlock thought to himself. "We're not friends, we've spoken only once and undoubtedly if he gets to know me, he'll leave. I don't owe him anything for choosing to be nice to me, and to be quite honest he probably doesn't give a shit what I do." Sherlock's brain went on and on, thinking it through and thinking it through again, trying to find excuses to send the damn text. But he couldn't. Not just now, not today, and not right now. If he was fighting to find excuses then this was a bad idea, he told himself. Instead, he saved the text to his drafts and with a long sigh he got up and left the lab.

There wasn't really anywhere to go in his school when you had no friends. You could go to the cafeteria but it always smelt of the god-awful food that was mass produced across the country to regularly poison everyone under the age of 18. Or there was the library, where he went regularly, but didn't enjoy. It was a small, dull room that was populated by some of the most intolerable people - namely Sherlock's frequent childhood bullies, Anderson and Donovan; they didn't deserve the respect of first names in his not-so-humble opinion. So Sherlock just walked; round the first floor, where he was less likely to come into contact with anyone, and then downstairs where he casually slipped past the dining hall and stepped into the fresh air. Freedom was a truly beautiful thing, even if it was only fleeting… and of course, completely imaginary. He was still bound by the gates that trapped him here for another three hours. He could just leave, but that would cause unnecessary trouble which he couldn't be bothered with. Not today.

Before he had even made one whole circuit of the school grounds, the bell rang shrill and loud, calling him to an afternoon of absolute doom and complete misery. If he could just get through the next few hours; a few hours and he would be free to leave. To collapse on his bed and rest; sleep just long enough to drown out his problems and his worries.

When Sherlock opened his eyes it was dark. He knew he'd fallen asleep not long after 6 o'clock – he'd only just had dinner before practically crawled up the stairs to his room and onto his bed, without even bothering to get undressed.

He turned on his light and cringed away from the brightness. His phone told him it was 3am, and Sherlock, with his inhumane sleeping habits, was wide awake. As he sat up on his bed, he looked around his dimly lit bedroom. It was a long room, his bed sat on the right of his window, facing the door on the opposite wall. The other half of the room had been Mycroft's old room, and it was along the far wall the lab space had been built. On the other side of the window there was a small rectangular kitchen table which had become Sherlock's desk; opposite was his wardrobe.

Sherlock liked his bedroom for many reasons (the lab being only one), but the main reason was that he didn't have to change who he was in here. It was his own space to do whatever he wanted, within reason, and it was the one place where he didn't have to hide. He also spent most of his time here, but as he turned over onto his side, Sherlock smiled at the freedom he now had. He lay like that for a long time, thinking, and waiting for sleep to consume him. As he closed his eyes again, in his final hopes of sleep, his day swirled in front of his eyes; the itching he had felt within his bones, just for the promise of another cigarette (even if it meant dealing with Victor Trevor). Of course the boredom of school never helped but his day was made better by John Watson, who seemed to be insistent on becoming Sherlock's only friend. Sherlock knew in his head that he wasn't good for someone like John Watson, but at four o'clock in the morning, he couldn't bring himself to care. It was John's face he thought of last as he finally drifted off to sleep.


	4. Giving In

The week passed in a haze, where Sherlock was almost always deep inside his mind palace. Everything was just as normal again like it was before his birthday, and before John; apart from the odd smile or nod in the corridor – they never had an opportunity to talk again.

Sherlock felt strange, stranger than he had on Monday; it was different. It had been a weird few days, and he was lonely again. He'd learned to banish emotions from an early age and now they were pushing their way through the cracks, and he couldn't stop them – he could only try to hide them. But there was no real reason for this change. He'd always been lonely, he'd always been friendless and he'd always known that that was the way it was. His brother had no problem with his loneliness – he thrived without the company of "dull humans", so why was this affecting him so much?

He thought about his life as a child, trying to make friends. He'd wanted to be appreciated, and cared about when he was that age, so why did he think something was wrong with him now that he was really feeling things again? What if this was him letting his walls down, gently, and letting himself feel slightly normal again? If that was what was happening then it hadn't been a conscious decision, and there didn't seem to be any reason for it anyway. He'd never been emotionless, just in control – possibly in too much control. However, he felt comforted at the idea that maybe there wasn't something wrong with him, but rather he was a normal, human boy. But the knowledge still didn't make these feelings go away.

"Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes?"

Why do people have to be so loud, Sherlock thought indignantly. He opened his eyes. Mr Moore's angry grey eyes bore into his own.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr Holmes. Pay attention in class please." His voice was clipped; he didn't sound impressed. He was very obviously stressed. Possible marriage problems, Sherlock concluded. He's slept on the sofa last night – his neck was sore and cramped, and he kept stretching - more importantly, he kept fiddling with his wedding ring, subconsciously frowning when he looked at it. He had bags under his eyes, and he hadn't even shaved this morning. Worried and disorganised too. Sherlock smiled internally.

This class was boring now, even more so than it already was. There was nothing left to deduce; he obviously couldn't return to his mind palace; he was lucky it would be easy to leave.

"I'm sorry Sir, I'm not feeling all the best. Can I please go to the toilet?" He put on his politest voice and wore his most innocent smile. He was dismissed with a sigh.

Sherlock had never dealt with boredom particularly well. He paced the yellow corridors of the upper floor, thinking, but that was no distraction as he'd spent far too much time doing that over the last week. Constant internal battles were no fun without regular distractions; he needed distractions. They kept him sane. Experiments. Exploring. Investigating. Anything. Anything that kept him from sinking back into his own head.

He settled on hiding in his lab for the remainder of the lesson, returning to class only to fetch his things, with a sheepish look on his face. Lying was easy, he concluded, when he quickly convinced Mr Moore that he'd been sick, and needed to be sent home. It was a shame he hadn't thought of this excuse earlier – school would be over in an hour - but he had been preoccupied in his mind palace.

He signed a form of absence from the school office and took himself home – the 35-minute walk giving him fresh air and an old idea. It had been four days since he'd saved this text, and Sherlock had tried not to think about it but now it was all he wanted. He needed a distraction and he was lost for ideas. But he was option less, he thought as he pressed 'send', and pocketed his phone.

At home, he removed his tie and donned his scarf and coat and paced around the living room. As impatient as he was, there would be no point jumping on a train to London if Victor didn't reply. When he thought about it, he realised he could just as easily use the fake ID he had bought online, but he wasn't convinced it was just cigarettes he was looking for, and he could get them from the corner store down the road anyway, if he wished. Considering his options, he downed the last of his coffee, checked his pockets for his wallet, keys, and phone, and left.

When he was on the train, his phone beeped.

 **** ** _I said you'd come back. Its £8, but I can  
get you something stronger if you like? – Victor_**

 **Where will I meet you?**

 **SH**

Sherlock decided to ignore his question.

 **** ** _Same place, how quickly can you be here? – Victor_**

Sherlock checked his watch and calculated how long it would take to walk through London. He only had ten minutes left on the train.

 **45 minutes.**

 **SH**

 **** ** _Consider it done - Victor_**

Sherlock felt almost euphoric as he hopped onto the platform and strode into the cold winter sun. There was a certain beauty to the buzzing streets of London that even Sherlock could admire. Everything flowed in a very precise mess – it was organised chaos and he loved it. London made him feel alive, and the city itself temporarily silenced his boredom, but it wasn't a cure. Nothing was, really, not even London - he couldn't just get a train to the city and wander around every time he felt bored.

As he approached the street he recognised so well from his memories of the last week, the butterflies in his stomach from earlier were gone. He needed what Victor could give him now. His paced picked up and he almost raced to find Victor standing in the entrance to the alley, head down, hood up.

"Victor," Sherlock said curtly. The boy looked up at him with dark eyes, the bags underneath even more emphasized than they were last time Sherlock had seen him. He wasn't anywhere close to how relaxed, smug and casual he had looked last time Sherlock had seen him, nor was he wearing his suit. Sherlock scanned him for data; he was, surprisingly, clean, and had been for around three days now, Sherlock thought. It was no wonder he looked so rough.

"Inside" Victor hissed, taking a few steps back and holding open the door.

The room inside was dark and smelt strongly of booze and chemicals. The graffiti-covered wallpaper was damp and peeling off the walls, landing on the stone floor. He looked around the room which was littered with mattresses paired with the bodies of the half dead, as well as actual litter – syringes and needles among various other things that Sherlock didn't even want to think about. A dim light filtered in through the broken windows on the opposite wall, just enough that Sherlock could see a flight of stairs through one doorway on the right, and large black door down the long corridor ahead of him. He must have come in through the back entrance.

"Follow me" Victor whispered, his voice hushed as a few heads struggled to look around at their retreating backs. They reached the staircase which took them into a room that covered the whole house apparently – there must have been at least 20 people here; slumped in chairs; sprawled across mattresses; curled up in the corner. Sherlock figured he was the only person in this place who wasn't drugged up on something. And he had only come here for some cigarettes, he thought. Unfortunately for him, it was too late to suddenly back out and use his fake ID now.

Victor led him to the farthest corner of the room, more empty than the rest of the place. The ceiling arched high above their heads, letting a little more light into the huge space. There was nobody within a ten-metre radius. Victor collapsed onto his dirt stained bed, and handed Sherlock his cigarettes along with a lighter – and unexpected gift.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, handing over his £10 note. "Keep the change."

"Are you sure you don't want anything else?" Victor's sly smirk had crawled its way back onto his face, as he nodded his head towards the small bags of dirty-white powder sitting by his bed.

Sherlock stood there, in silence, considering this. He, of course, knew all about the effects and dangers of both heroin and cocaine, but that didn't make him any less curious, or willing. His brain was saying yes and no at the same time, but his heart said no. In all his recklessness he concluded that he had never trusted his heart when it came to decisions, and so he handed over the money and pocketed the little bag, along with the several syringes and needles that Victor gave him. That would be enough to last him for more than a while, he guessed; he wasn't that desperate to try it anyway.

Despite Sherlock's apparent discomfort, Victor invited him to stay, correctly assuming that this was something the dark-haired boy had never done before, and reached for his own small bag. Sherlock realised that Victor was shaking and sweating slightly as he stretched out his arm – withdrawal symptoms. Sherlock wondered how long it had been since victor had last been high; he seemed slightly off balance, possibly dizzy; his hair was greasy and his face was almost yellow in the pale light; his smugness had almost entirely disappeared, and he looked far too eager to get high again.

When the solution had been prepared, Sherlock watched as victor carefully injected it into his left arm with a long sigh of relief. Hardly any time had passed before he seemed to relax against the wall, calming down completely. Quietly Sherlock got to his feet and looked at the boy in front of him. For someone who had seemed so oddly threatening when they first met, he looked helpless now, in his little daze.

"Thank you for the… demonstration" Sherlock muttered somewhat sarcastically, so that only victor could hear him, but the boy didn't seem to be able to pay much attention anyway.

"You're welcome." Victor's words were slow and slightly slurred; his eyes out of focus. He didn't get a reply.

When the fresh air hit Sherlock, it seemed to clear his head, although not as much as he would've liked. It was dark out now, and the cold evening wind nipped at Sherlock's face as he began to walk. He pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one between his lips. This second drag of a cigarette went better than the first – there was only minimal coughing. The hot air burned his lungs on the way out, but it wasn't as unpleasant as it could have been. It was a relief to the system in a way, as his craving had subsided considerably, and he felt calmer though slightly light-headed. He wasn't aching inside anymore. When he considered it, he actually felt quite good.

The first thing he noticed as he walked up his street was that his parents were both home. It was after 6, he realised and he would probably have missed some texts from his mother. The second thing he noticed was one of Mycroft's ludicrous black cars sitting outside his house. As he opened the front door and stepped into the living room, a sudden feeling of horror hit him. Mycroft's security cameras – he might know where Sherlock had been.

He relaxed as he glanced around the room; his parent's faces were a picturesque portrayal of relaxation, and Mycroft was sitting with a cup of tea on the sofa; they were all chatting contentedly. Of course, that could change at any minute, but judging Mycroft's behaviour, he seemed to be safe for now.

"Oh Sherlock, finally, you've graced us with your presence." Mycroft's sarcastic tone cut through Sherlock's momentary panic, and he sat down. "Where have you been?"

"Out." His face gave away nothing.

"You left school an hour early, care to explain why?" His mother didn't seem particularly bothered as she asked him this. Sherlock wondered why he bothered answering.

"It was boring."

"Apparently you felt sick." Mycroft glared at him.

"Sick of being bored," Sherlock deadpanned.

"That's not what you told the school."

"What difference does it make?" He got up and strode upstairs, shutting the living room door with as much drama as was humanly possible. His mother laughed behind him. He heard Mycroft sigh. Sometimes he acted more like a father than a brother, and in Sherlock's ever so honest opinion, it was one of the many crosses he had to bear when it came to his brother.

When Sherlock reached his room he went straight to his wardrobe, emptying everything that was piled up onto his carpet. His room was a mess. He lifted the rectangular piece of wood that fitted over the bottom of his wardrobe and pulled back the carpet underneath it. The floorboard here was cracked, and if Sherlock could just lift it out gently- yes! A small hole had opened up in his bedroom floor underneath his wardrobe – not even Mycroft would find anything here.

He took a padlocked black box from the pile of crap that sat next to him, and opened it carefully, pleased to find that it was empty, apart from the key, which was still in its little pouch on the inside of the lid. His initials glistened on the side in gold as he turned it in the light – it had been a gift from Mycroft three years ago, which he'd found strange because his brother would never usually encourage him to hide anything. Sherlock carefully placed the contents of his coat pocket into the box, closed it and locked it, before tying a long piece of string around the hole in the key and putting it over his head. Once it was safely resting next to his beating heart, he placed the box in the hole and replaced the floorboard, and smirked at his handy work.


	5. Association

It was with an exaggerated sigh that Sherlock Holmes trudged into the assembly hall the next Monday. He slumped in the seat at the end of the back row and found himself sitting next to John Watson, who looked far too cheerful considering he was at school. Then again, he didn't know what to expect next.

"You look happy," John speculated sarcastically.

"You don't know what's about to happen." John's face darkened ever so slightly at that thought. It was quite comical.

"What's about to happen?" He sounded far more worried than he should have been.

"Utter hell." John laughed; it was a warm sound.

At that point, their headmaster, Mr Roberts, stepped onto the podium at the front of the hall. He coughed into the microphone. "Welcome, Year 12." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Now, as I'm sure you're all aware, this is a very important year for you. The first year of your A levels, of course. That's why we have decided that now is the time to think about the future – specifically your own future. So, what do you want to do? Think about it, really think. This is the time for you to decide. Now, rather than later, so that you can work towards the best results you can get, with your own goal in mind."

By this point of his 'motivational speech', the entire hall had sunk into silent misery. The future. How dull, Sherlock thought. He took the piece of paper his form tutor handed him at that point and stared at it blankly.

' **What do** ** _you_** **want to do with your life**?' it read.

"So, what do you want to do, y'know, with your life?' John asked him as they filled in the pieces of paper. He watched as John scribbled down the word 'Doctor' in his messy scrawl.

"Consulting detective," Sherlock said decisively. "Although I originally wanted to be a pirate".

John laughed again, and Sherlock began to wonder if it was all he ever did. He seemed to be radiating happiness. It was illuminating. "Am I supposed to know what that is? Some sort of private detective?"

"Well I'd solve crimes, and when the police are out of their depth – which is always - they'd consult me." He knew he sounded cocky but what he was saying, strictly speaking, was true.

"The police would consult you?" John's voice was full of disbelief. They got up and handed their paper to the Head Boy, standing at the doors of the hall, and sauntered out behind the army of year twelves.

Sherlock gave John a slight smile. "When you first sat next to me the other week, I knew straight away that you lacked confidence, come from a poor background, transferred here for more of a reason than simply moving house and, I've more recently noticed, you live with your younger sister, Harry, and your alcoholic mother."

"How the hell did you know that?" John's knuckles had turned white and his face was pale. Sherlock wondered if he was going to be sick.

"Well, first off your lack of confidence came from your posture; you were practically folded in on yourself – not open and relaxed like you've grown to be - the shyness more or less disappeared immediately once it was apparent you had been accepted by your peers which indicates a transfer for emotional reasons, perhaps due to bullying? The age of your uniform indicates your background, for obvious reasons; it's second-hand, while the lack of care, particularly the ironing, indicates an absence of an authority figure, or rather one who isn't particularly caring – perhaps an alcoholic? You have a younger sister who came with you to school this morning, and every other morning so far, who is in year nine – She calls you 'Johnny'." Sherlock was having fun now.

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Your mobile phone, obviously- don't give me that look, I didn't steal it, I've seen you using it in class. Your phone is an old model, just over two years old, with an engraving on the back. It's rare for a 16-year old boy to have an engraved phone, especially not one addressed to 'Sharon Watson' – a hand-me-down from your mother then; not many family members would give a gift of this expense. Then there's the power connection; tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night she goes to plug it in to charge but her hands are shaking. You'll never see a drunk's phone without those marks."

"That was incredible… just amazing. Absolutely amazing." They rounded a corner and stepped into the cool winter sun shining down into the school grounds.

"You really think so?" Sherlock had been expecting John to slap him.

"Of course it was… that was extraordinary." He had never seen anyone look so amazed in all his life.

"Well," Sherlock hesitated. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" They were alone in the front grounds of the school now.

"Piss off," Sherlock found himself laughing along to John's dulcet tones, finding himself feeling more involved in the world of friendship than he had ever intended to be. God, it felt good. He had never expected this.

John turned to look at him, his eyes full of worry. "Could you maybe not mention to anyone that last part?" Sherlock nodded in response.

"So are these deductions, or whatever the hell you want to call them, the reason you're always on your own?" John's voice had become softer, more considerate. He genuinely seemed to be interested in Sherlock, which was a very rare occurrence.

"No - by choice." Sherlock smiled. "People are boring."

"They're not if you just give them a chance."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. John frowned at this, his caring instincts becoming more obvious by the second, but he didn't say anything. They were near the gates now and far enough away from the school that they wouldn't be noticed. "I tried that once, big mistake." His voice was muffled by the cigarette between his lips. John just nodded at him as though he understood why someone like Sherlock didn't have friends.

They walked to their next class together – the one they had met in; music. Sherlock loved being in this class. When he wasn't writing out his elaborate compositions to send away to the exam board, or learning fairly simple musical concepts that he had known for years, he could play his violin without a care in the world and nobody here could stop him because he was supposed to be playing.

John Watson, Sherlock had discovered, was a different story entirely. He was a mediocre clarinettist, who had apparently chosen music as one of his 6 exam subjects because he had thought it would be easy. He hadn't found it easy, however, when he'd had to ask Sherlock for help on the composition work that they were doing that period.

That lunchtime, Sherlock had made his way towards his science lab without another thought - he needed to check on the mold he had been growing - when he realised John was still walking behind him. The boy was struggling to keep up with his fast pace, but he seemed keen.

"Why are we going to science, it's lunchtime?" John frowned.

"Where did you think I went during lunch?"

"Don't you need to get food, though?" John cared far too much about some things. For example, Sherlock's health.

"Digestion slows me down, it uses up too much blood"

"Sherlock", John sounded completely scandalised, as though Sherlock had told him he tortured puppies as a hobby. "You need to eat. When was the last time you had a full meal?"

Sherlock thought about that, possibly for longer than John would have liked. His mother had made him dinner last night, but he hadn't even pretended to enjoy it. She knew he didn't like her cooking, and he was well past hurting her feelings after 16 years of putting up with him. "Saturday evening," he said steadily, waiting for the overreaction that John was obviously about to have.

Almost immediately, he found himself being dragged down the stairs to the cafeteria. "For someone so small you are incredibly annoying", Sherlock sulked. John didn't seem to notice as they weaved their way through the tables and chairs that were filled with their peers. There were many pairs of eyes on them as they moved through the room. Sherlock could only assume this was for two reasons: one, he was never in the cafeteria. It just didn't happen. Nobody saw him apart from during class times, and he liked it that way. Secondly, and more importantly to most people watching them, he had company. Admittedly, said company was dragging him by the wrist, but it was very obviously without malicious intent. Apparently being able to find someone who did not want to punch him in the face was surprising to people. Shocking.

After ten minutes he had vowed to eat at least half of a cheese sandwich and an apple, which pleased John. Then they retreated back upstairs to his lab, after John grew fed up of Sherlock's demands, and surprisingly, John's burning curiosity. Nobody had ever been curious about the experiments Sherlock conducted here, but John Watson was… even if he didn't understand the importance of Sherlock's investigations.

"Is there a reason you're growing poisonous mould?"

"I might need to poison someone."

"Might? Is there going to be a deciding factor?"

"Maybe."

John laughed again. That was seventeen times now. It had been no more than four hours that they'd spent together, John more or less following him around like a puppy, and he'd laughed seventeen times. By this point in the day, Sherlock had already decided – he was keeping him. John Watson was even better than tolerable, like his parents and Mycroft. John Watson was nice to be around; pleasant, fairly quiet, smart (though not as smart as Sherlock), and most importantly, he seemed to like Sherlock too.

It was on his way home from school, as he was walking through one of the busier roads of Harrow, that John Watson realised he was being followed. Not by someone on the street, however. The same black car had driven past him seven times in the last ten minutes. This wouldn't usually have been something John spotted (he had never been the most observant of people), but every time the car passed him, it was going more slowly than before, and it was seriously starting to creep him out.

It was when he turned right off the main road, and down a much quieter street that the car finally stopped next to him; the door behind the driver's seat swinging open.

"In." A female voice came from inside.

"I'm sorry what? Who are you?" John ducked down to look inside the car. A woman who was probably no older than 25 was typing quickly on her Blackberry. She didn't look up.

"Get in the car, Mr Watson."

John really didn't know what to do. He didn't think he could run away, but he didn't want to get into that car either – he did have a little bit of common sense. At that moment in time, his mobile phone rang. It was an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"You have been asked twice now; get in the car, Mr Watson." The male voice on the other end was very posh and very condescending. It also sounded quite formidable, but John Watson did not feel very threatened. Then again, he grew up on a council estate.

"Why?"

"You see the security camera on the building straight ahead, Mr Watson? Yes, that's right…" John stared straight into the camera.

"How are you doing this?"

"Get into the car, John. I do hope I don't have to threaten you." The man on the other end hung up.

Against his better judgement, John decided to get into the car. It was caught on camera now anyway, John thought, before he realised that whoever the hell was on the other end of that phone call was probably perfectly capable of wiping the last 5 minutes of film. He slammed the door shut behind him and hoped to God that, if he were murdered, someone would find his body.

The drive was no more than ten minutes long, but John Watson had no clue where he was. It appeared to be a warehouse of some sort; it was built from industrial materials and was dimly lit. It was very dramatic. Much like the man standing in front of him.

He was tall, and had a very young face, though his hairline was receding quite drastically, and he wore a 3-piece suit; he had an air of superiority about him as he twirled his umbrella in his hands. John cleared his throat.

"Where am I?" He tried his hardest to sound threatening. It didn't exactly work, but he didn't sound scared either.

"Greater London." The man smiled. "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place." He paused. "You don't seem very afraid."

He wasn't. He felt braver now. "You don't seem very frightening."

The man chuckled. "So, John, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I've only just met him; he's in my class at school…" His voice trailed off. "What's it to you anyway?"

"Oh, I'm just an interested party. If you, however, decide to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, I'd be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money, to ease your way… in return for Information, of course."

"Why?" He did not like the sound of this one bit.

"You are not of a wealthy family, I know for a fact that both you and your little sister could benefit from this, hugely."

"Why Sherlock, though? Why him?" He tried to ignore the sheer terror that gripped him as he realised that this man knew quite possibly everything there was to know about him.

"I worry about him, constantly…"

"That's nice of you. You know, you don't exactly appear to be friends." He laughed sourly, remembering Sherlock's attitude to friendship.

"You're in his class, exactly how many friends does he have?"

"One."

"You're very loyal, very quickly."

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'. "Just not interested."

"I haven't even given you a figure."

"Don't bother; I'm not interested." He paused. "Are we done?"

"You tell me."

The man looked behind John now, where the car door had reopened. The woman from before was standing next to the car, still typing on her blackberry. It was only when he sat down and closed his eyes that he realised how much he was shaking. He should have gotten home from school ten minutes ago by now, he realised, not that his mother would notice. And so he sat there, hoping he was being taken home, feeling more scared than he'd ever been in his life, and wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into by trying to befriend Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Coming Home

Sherlock's in-school chemistry lab was a very small space. It was even smaller when both he and John Watson were crowded around his small desk, staring intently at the colony bacteria that had grown on Sherlock's agar plate. Sherlock carefully lifted the lid, his eyes frowning but focused as he scraped a tiny bit of bacteria onto the glass slide John was holding, and slid it under the microscope. While examining it, he was all too aware of John's curious face looming behind him.

"Where exactly did you get the bacteria from, to grow it?"

"I took various samples from the table-tops in the cafeteria, the sinks in the biology lab, and from under the toilet seats in the boy's bathr-"

"That's really, honestly, so, so lovely Sherlock," John interrupted loudly, trying to mask his amusement with annoyance. He wasn't sure whether or not it worked.

Sherlock's phone buzzed from his pocket.

"Pass me my phone." It wasn't a question.

John looked around the tight space Sherlock had made on the cluttered workbench, lifting papers and moving books, trying to find his way around the mess. "Where is it?"

"My blazer." Sherlock twirled the little dial on the side of the microscope, focusing on the small colony in front of his eyes. His intense focus was disrupted however, when John pulled him roughly backwards and rummaged in his inside pocket with quite a bit of force. He scowled. _"Careful."_

It was Victor. Sherlock pocketed his phone quickly, without even opening the message. _Not today_ , he thought, bitterly, leaning backwards in his chair. He hadn't touched the heroin that victor had given him; he felt it would be better to use it when he needed it, rather than for curiosity's sake. Not that he hadn't examined it with some thoroughness under the microscope.

He drifted back to the present when John flung himself into the chair next to Sherlock; the boy's eyes were daggers. Apparently Sherlock had done something wrong, then. He was always doing that, but he never actually knew what he done wrong - usually he just spoke and people would get flustered over nothing. Or start crying - that had happened once or twice. He didn't think he'd said anything this time though? He didn't remember saying anything. Sherlock looked at John carefully, avoiding eye contact – he was very obviously worried about something or other. It was alarming Sherlock hadn't noticed it before now; it was written across this face. But then he had been distracted. John was frowning now, but not as though he was concentrating, and he kept biting his lip subconsciously. Worried about Harry maybe?

"What is it?" His curiosity overruled him, as usual.

"What's what?" The defensive tone in his voice gave him away.

"You know what. What's wrong?"

"I met a friend of yours last night."

"A _friend_?" This was news to Sherlock.

"Well, I wouldn't say a 'friend', actually, I have no idea who he was, but actually he didn't seem like much of a friend at all. I was more or less kidnapped by him."

Sherlock hesitated. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes." John was relaxing slightly now; Sherlock knew who this man was and didn't seem at all fazed by it, so he doubted he was going to get brutally murdered by him. Well, he hoped not anyway.

"Did you take it?"

"What? No, of course I didn't… Who was he?" Sherlock sighed.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now." Checking his phone again, he decided he couldn't stay in this stuffy room any longer, and got up swiftly, pulling his coat on and striding out of the lab. "Come on, John!"

"Where are we going?"

"Out." And with that he strode down the corridor, around the corner and out of sight down the stairs, his coat billowing behind him.

Bloody drama queen, John thought, but somehow he really didn't mind at all.

They stood outside the gates again, hidden from the rain amongst the overgrown trees while Sherlock smoked. He had four cigarettes left now – he was smoking at least 3 cigarettes a day, so as not to be noticed by Mycroft, but this kind of resistance wouldn't last long at all. It had been four days since the agonising torture of not having any cigarettes ended, but it was also four days with the knowledge that he would run out soon, which increased his already-high risk of him turning to something all the more harmful. He really was considering going to one of the convenience stores nearby and trying to pass for 18, which would probably work except that everyone knew everyone around here. More importantly, and a lot more concerning for Sherlock however, was that the likelihood that Mycroft had access to the CCTV here was very high; there were only so many stores in harrow, as opposed to the thousands in London city centre.

He thought about this for a while, going over his options, while John stood beside him in a comfortable silence that they'd already grown used to after only a day and a half together. He'd been in his usual spot smoking this morning, when John had found him, which confused Sherlock immensely – John had had to explain why he was there. "I found you 'cause I wanted to spend some time with you, you muppet," John had laughed. He had also declined the offer of a cigarette, Sherlock had noticed. He still didn't seem to be very keen on Sherlock smoking, though he never said a word.

They stood there now, side by side, and watched the tiny droplets of water fall to the ground in front of them, like minuscule diamonds glistening as they fell from the sky. Sherlock liked the rain. It calmed him down when he was thinking too much, and it was helping today.

The day so far had not been an easy one, starting that morning when John practically had to drag Sherlock out of chemistry when he proclaimed loud and clear to Mr Henderson that he was an inadequate teacher, and had no idea how to appreciate Chemistry for what it was, after failing to achieve the correct result on an experiment. This was how they had both ended up in the office of Mr Carson, their form tutor, who looked far too amused to be really giving Sherlock into trouble.

After a short lecture to which Sherlock had answered as sarcastically as possible, Mr Carson turned to John and asked him if he planned on joining Sherlock in all of the trouble he was bound to cause in coming months. Without a second thought, or even a tiny moment of doubt, John had replied "Oh, most definitely, Sir."

"You know, I really can't be bothered going to gym – it's not like we're going to miss anything. Fancy just ditching instead?" John broke the silence, like a knock on the front door inside Sherlock's mind palace, reminding him of his place in the suddenly quite bearable present.

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to be leading you astray? Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere."

The two boys slipped back upstairs amongst the crowds of their peers returning to class; John collected their books together and shoved them into their bags, while Sherlock tidied his collection of petri dishes away into their (very specific) index. Together they crept through the science department, down two flights of stairs, and turned left through the closest fire exit, all the time making sure that their faces were hidden.

Anyone who would have looked out the window at that point in time would have only seen two dark figures retreating into the crisp January afternoon. The trod quietly, contentedly, aimlessly, their quick footsteps' echo bouncing from the buildings on the deserted streets they walked through. Tuesday afternoons were always quiet, eerie almost, but Sherlock found it relaxing. He wondered if John did too.

"We should go somewhere, or do something." John's voice broke through the gentle noises of the rain, as they took another right down to the main street. "Do you have any ideas?"

"There's never anything interesting to do here," Sherlock groaned, remembering that John had only just moved here. At that thought, an idea popped into his head that was somewhat terrifying to Sherlock. "Why don't you come over to mine?" He blurted, before he could stop himself.

"Are you sure?" Disbelief coloured John's voice. He coughed. "I mean, that would be lovely, thanks, just as long as I'm not a bother."

"Of course not; nobody will be in."

"How far away do you live?" He sounded quite hesitant, and that worried Sherlock. They were passing under an industrial grey railway bridge now sheltering from the rain. There were no longer deserted in the quiet streets; the people around them heading in and out of the convenience store, grocery store, butchers as well as an alarming number of men entering the pub at two in the afternoon.

"Not too far, only another mile. Keep up." They walked for another 15 minutes or so following the busy street as it twisted around a few corners, John always trailing ever so slightly behind. Eventually, Sherlock began to slow down, and the road that was lined with shops shifted slowly into a very average English housing estate.

It was only when Sherlock took a left down a quieter street that John realised; t _his is where he actually lives_. Why did it seem so surreal to him that Sherlock Holmes lived on an ordinary street, had an ordinary house, and lived with an ordinary, functioning family; parents who loved him and fed him? Why had John imagined him alone?

The curly-haired boy ahead of him then turned left again, up a wide driveway. The house in front of him was fairly large, and painted a brilliant white, with the charcoal door and window frames giving it a rather dramatic look. The left side of the upper floor had a large bay-window, looking out onto the street, while the right half of the house was joined with a small garage. Ivy was twined round the porch, extending delicately over the roof of the garage and up the side of the house, into the gutter above. It was exactly the sort of house John would have imagined Sherlock living in, if he had imagined Sherlock with a normal life. Which he _really_ hadn't. That itself was really quite stupid of him, now that he came to think about it; why would Sherlock be going to a normal school in a normal town in greater London if he didn't live a fairly normal life? _He would hardly be going to Bart's if he lived in some fancy country mansion_ , John thought, somewhat bitterly.

"Come on John," Sherlock called somewhat impatiently from inside the doorway. John stepped into the house and looked around him, tugging off his coat. On his right, a dark wooden staircase let up to the first floor of the house, which seemed enormous to John now – the walls were light and modern, contrasting with the deep mahogany stairs, creating a wide, open, space.

"Take your shoes off before you go upstairs, John." Sherlock was already halfway up the staircase when he shouted down to the blonde-haired boy.

"Aren't you going to give me a tour?" Sherlock froze in his tracks. John was beaming at him innocently from the bottom of the stairs. It was with an exasperated sigh that he complied.

Across from the staircase, on the left side of the front door, was the living room. Much like the hall it was big and white, and decorated with very little; a brown sofa, two mismatching armchairs, a large flat-screen TV, and a coffee table to match the colour of all the doors, the stairs, the skirting boards, and every other bit of wood in the house. "This is the living room," Sherlock drawled, "This is where I tend to avoid." He swept through to the kitchen which matched the rest of the house in its ability to feel both modern and old at the same time. On the right of the door into the kitchen there was a slight archway leading into the dining room; double doors lined the left wall, giving the view of a small, but obviously well cared-for garden. "Yes, yes it's all very interesting," he muttered sarcastically, "it's a house, can we move on? I have an experiment waiting for me upstairs."

He walked past another door across from the front door which John hadn't noticed before, as he followed Sherlock up the stairs. "Bathroom."

"What?"

"I said, 'that's the bathroom'."

"Oh." John followed him up to the top of the stairs and down to a door at the end of a narrow hallway, which he assumed must be Sherlock's bedroom. It suddenly felt very strange to be standing outside the door of this boy's bedroom; this strange boy of whom he knew next to nothing about. And somehow, surprisingly, he was very okay with that. He stepped inside.

This room was very different to all the other rooms in the house. The light walls had morphed into a deeper blue, with matching curtains and bedsheets, and a soft rug on the floor in the middle of the room. The room was very long, with a beautiful bay window in the middle of the opposite wall, but it felt smaller and more cramped than it should, due to the clutter that covered the entire place. There was a large bed opposite the door, the sheets perfectly made but covered in a layer of textbooks, papers and notes. On the other side of the window there was a desk which was impossible to see under the mess – the only distinguishable feature being a laptop sitting open on the corner of the table. Above the desk an old and wrinkled periodic table poster had been plastered on the wall. There was a kitchen unit installed along the wall from where he was standing, across from Sherlock's desk, next to his wardrobe. With a lit Bunsen burner sitting on top of it.

"John," Sherlock's voice came from window as John wandered across the room. "Don't touch it."

"How long has it been lit?"

"Several hours more than my mother would appreciate."

John sighed. "And what was so important that risked you burning your house down?"

"Experiment." He was sitting on the window ledge, his tie on the floor, sleeves rolled up, his violin in his grip.

"So, what is there to do here?" John pulled out the chair from Sherlock's desk and sat down.

"Oh, I don't know. How do you usually pass time?"

"I don't know. Why did we spend 45 minutes walking here if there's nothing to do?"

"Better than standing in the rain."

"I guess." They sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, before Sherlock brought his violin up to his chin.

The music was beautiful; long, slow notes hit John's ears first before the melody quickly sped up to a steady pace, filled with some deep hidden emotion pouring out of every note that Sherlock played so tenderly. The piece ended much sooner than John would have liked, not that Sherlock needed to hear that; his head was big enough. It didn't matter anyway, because John found himself utterly speechless as he sat there. When he looked up, Sherlock hadn't noticed John's reaction, or rather pretended he hadn't because Sherlock noticed everything. And so there they sat, Sherlock playing violin and John listening, neither saying a word until Sherlock finally put his violin down, with a worrying amount of force.

"I'm bored." John though about this for a while, until he had an idea.

"Sherlock, do you have the game Cluedo?"

Half an hour, two games, and four arguments later, Sherlock threw his cards down with an exasperated sigh. "It's no use, John; the only logical conclusion is that it was Professor Plum!"

"I've told you twice already Sherlock, _I have Professor Plum."_ He spoke each word slowly, clearly and very loudly, causing Sherlock to flinch. With a look complete disgust, Sherlock tore open the pack on the middle of the board to reveal that the murderer was in fact-

"Mrs. White?!" He spluttered. "It is _not_ Mrs. White," He spat. John was thankful when his phone rang, interrupting their domestic.

"Mum, hi," Sherlock's ears perked up as he tried hard to listen to what John's mother was saying on the other end of the phone. "Yeah? Yeah, I know. Hmm? Yeah. When will you be home? Oh. Okay. Yup. Bye." Disappointment had washed over the boy's face. "Sherlock, I'm really sorry, I've got to head home now. Mum's… busy. I don't know when she'll be home tonight. So I need to make sure Harry eats something and probably tidy up a bit too before she gets in…" He trailed off, sadly.

"Of course, I'll see you out." Sherlock paused. "Do you want me to walk with you or-"

"No, no, it's fine really, it's okay." John's smile was not convincing in the slightest as he pulled on his shoes, lifted his bag onto his back and turned away from Sherlock, down the stairs and out the front door.

"See you tomorrow, John."

"See you, Sherlock."

The door shut behind the boy, and Sherlock was alone. He returned to his room, taking his usual position on his bed, deep in thought. He was wandering deep inside the corridors of his mind palace, to the remote places, creating spaces, deleting things. Solar System? Gone. Kings and Queens? Gone. Prime Minister? Gone. Instead there was John Watson, creeping into every crevice and corner, there was always just a little bit of John, like he was filling the place up from the bottom to the top; unstoppable. A flood. John, who liked apples. John, who played rugby. John, who was good at English and Biology, but terrible at Music. John, who had dragged Sherlock through corridors and noise and people, just to make sure he ate something. John, who had walked all the way over to Sherlock's house for violin and Cluedo. John Watson, who had decided that Sherlock Holmes was his friend.


	7. Stories

**Chapter Seven – Stories**

Sherlock would be the first person to admit that he _loathed_ people; reminding everyone of that was one of his favourite pastimes. So why, in the last month, was always seen with a short, stocky blonde by his side? The boy in question, Mycroft had learned, was called John Watson, also in Year 12, with the strong desire to be a doctor and escape the household that he'd always hated. He knew that they boy lived in a small flat on one of the main roads in central harrow, only ten minutes away from the Holmes' house. He was also aware that it had been 3 weeks since Sherlock had shown up at their front door with John in tow, but that Sherlock had never once stepped foot in John's house. CCTV had told him that. If the boy wouldn't even let Sherlock in his house, he doubted that he would be willing to share any information about Sherlock or about his personal life to Mycroft; their confrontation had told him that. He was resigned to keeping his distance, for now.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't see him from where he stood in the busy science corridor. In the doorway to his lab, looking over the heads of more than one hundred pupils who were all filing out to the lunch hall, pushing each other over and swearing far too loudly, he could not see John. John should have been here five minutes ago. Why was he not here? He had an idea, but he needed John, who was nowhere to be seen. Which was rude of him.

Sighing impatiently, he took out his phone.

 **Science block.**

 **Come at once, if convenient.**

 **SH**

It had been five minutes and John still wasn't here.

 **If inconvenient, come anyway.**

 **(Could be dangerous).**

 **SH**

Sherlock hated waiting for John to reply to messages. On the contrary, he was fed up of his phone buzzing with messages from Victor. Victor who had developed some form of obsession for Sherlock, who was sending vulgar and flirtatious messages to Sherlock at least 12 times a day, and who seemed to find the lack of response encouraging. Upon their last meeting, Victor had given Sherlock not only his cigarettes but a drunken kiss. His breath tasted of alcohol, and it was repulsive. Sherlock had pushed him away, told him he was drunk and to fuck off. He hadn't really taken the not-so-subtle hint.

After fifteen minutes of waiting, he slumped back in his chair in the corner of his lab with a dramatic sigh. Sherlock recognised that this wasn't normal behaviour for John, and it was while he was considering the possible ways in which he could have been kidnapped that the Blonde boy showed up at the door, red-faced and breathless.

"Sorry, sorry, you said you needed me? Said it was dangerous?" He'd had PE last; it had run over by 20 minutes… during lunchtime? Ahh of course, Sherlock realised. It was natural that John would be given an opportunity to try out for the rugby team. How dull. "Are you listening to me?" A hand waved in front of his face.

"Oh, yes, sorry no. It was dull, I zoned out."

"You said you needed me for something dangerous?"

"I was trying to lure you here quickly – I see it worked. How do you fancy a trip to London?"

"What, now?" John's panicked face had relaxed into one of his many exasperated 'dealing with Sherlock' expressions.

"I was thinking sometime next June – yes _now_."

"You know, you don't need to accompany every sarcastic comment with a sarcastic eye-roll. But yes, I'll come with you… but I swear Sherlock it is _only_ because I haven't done my Biology homework and I don't want Dr Grant to kill me. I won't come running to you every time you get bored in school."

* * *

The train wasn't very busy, but it wouldn't usually be on a Wednesday afternoon when everyone was either at school or working, unless they were joining Sherlock and John in truanting. And if they were, who could blame them?

"Deduce something for me."

"What?"

"I'm bored," John said with a nudge. "Deduce something for me." Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Oh… erm, okay." He cleared his throat again. "That man over there, with the dog is cheating on his partner with a man, he's texting on a separate phone – but he's only smiling when he uses one of the phones, the one he's texting his lover with; a work phone, maybe?"

"How do you know it's a man?"

"Look at him, for God's sakes. He gets his haircut at least twice a month, he's very obviously recently redone his fake tan, and his eyebrows can't have been done more than a week ago – he is extremely well groomed."

"Could just take pride in his appearance?"

"Probability says he's gay."

"O-kay."

* * *

If Sherlock had found London interesting before, then now was incomparable, with John Watson standing behind him. People, by nature were predictable. They liked to follow structure and order and live lives that they're expected to live because that's how society had always functioned. Not John Watson. While predictable in so many ways, he was also completely foreign to Sherlock in his ability to be the most intelligent (yet extremely ordinary) he'd ever known. He was unpredictable in what he would say or do next, which Sherlock had never experienced before, with any person.

They wandered through the bustling streets, only talking when they needed to, but it was okay. The noise of tourists and shoppers was a low buzz in the background of their thoughts, while they walked and walked aimlessly.

"Is there a real reason we're actually here?" John had asked at one point.

"Yes, of course."

"And?"

"I was bored."

"And I'm supposed to find that a justifiable reason to come to London?"

"No."

"Right."

He pulled out the pack of cigarettes he had picked up from Victor the week before, and flipped it open to find there was only one cigarette left. He was sure he had more than that. "Shit." He'd have to go back to Victor. Today, it seemed; he was already in London. However, the last thing he needed was for John to go anywhere near that place. The life that he spent at school and with John would have to remain separate from Victor and his slimy world of addiction, which Sherlock had more or less avoided successfully. Unless you counted Victor's obsession. Which he didn't. Sherlock weighed up his options, but eventually he decided that the need was too important.

"Actually, you're right. I need cigarettes."

John snorted. "You are unbelievable."

"I know."

 **Are you in London? I need another pack, but I have company.**

 **SH**

 _ **Always for you Sherl… so glad you could finally return my texts :* and please bring your friend ;) – Victor**_

"Who are you texting?"

"Nobody."

 **Not a chance, just tell me when and where to meet you, I'll have your money and you'll leave me alone.**

 **SH**

 _ **Two streets away from where we met last time, it's still as quiet but we're trying to keep a low profile. 10 minutes, if you can make it. You don't have to linger. Still bring your friend. – Victor**_

Well that had sobered him up.

John sighed. "We should do something. Is there anywhere you want to go? Y'know, rather than just wandering around, it is a little boring after a while."

"Cigarettes first."

"Fine." Sherlock could already feel the lecture coming from the tone of John's voice. "You don't need them though, you just want them. You're my friend Sherlock, and honest to God, I think you should quit."

"Be glad it's just cigarettes I'm addicted to."

"Wait, _what?"_

"What did you call me?" Sherlock paused. "A _friend_? I don't have friends," Sherlock denied.

"No, you're right. You have me," John said calmly. Sherlock nodded at that.

"John, I'm only taking you here because I have to, just to be clear. The person we're meeting… well, he's a bit of a prick if I'm honest."

John's warm laugh warmed the air between them as they turned left into a narrower street that Sherlock recognised as the one Victor had described. John wouldn't have to be anywhere near a drug den, at least.

"How much further?"

Before Sherlock had answered, a boy who John thought could've been 18 or 19, stepped out in front of them, arm extended, stopping them in their tracks. "Hello Sherlock. Who's this?" The boy smirked. He didn't have a pleasant face, and before John had spoken a word to him he had decided that whoever he was, he wasn't a fan.

"Victor. You know what I want."

"Here," Victor tossed him the cigarettes, and he handed over the money. He vaguely heard Victor asking about 'the other stuff', but he was more aware of John standing next to him. His shoulders had squared up as though he was gearing himself up for a fight, it seemed. A natural response to danger, Sherlock assessed.

"Other stuff? What's he talking about?" The blonde boy next to him, sounded much more put together than Sherlock felt. It was like his stomach had sunk to rest somewhere next to his feet. Why the _hell_ had he brought John here to meet Victor, he thought. This was quite possibly one of the worst ideas he had ever had. Of course this environment would aggravate John if any of the information Sherlock had gathered about John's mother's alcoholism was true; relatives of addicts tended not to be fond of drug dealers.

"Your boyfriend's a little bit feisty there Sherl," Victor grinned.

"Boyfriend?" John looked from Victor to Sherlock in complete confusion, which would have been comical if they were in any other situation. "Do you have a problem here?"

"No problem. Just wondering why you're hanging around with this arsehole when he can't even reply to my texts, that's all."

"I thought I had made it clear to you Victor, I am not interested, not that you payed any attention when I told you last time; I've received more than 300 texts in the last month." Victor's ears had turned slightly pink. "Come on John."

"Wait a fucking minute, you faggot," Victor growled.

"Hold on, what did you just call him?" John roared.

"John, it's not worth it."

"I'm not leaving until this bastard apologises."

"So this is it Sherlock? You come to me for your cheap cigs and then you just fuck off?"

"Yes. I don't want you Victor, I never have done, and I told you that from the beginning. It's not my fault you didn't listen," Sherlock muttered. And with that, Victor punched him.

"You prick." John used his left hand to shove Sherlock backwards, and swung his right arm round to hit Victor on the jaw with all the force he could muster, which was quite a lot.

Then, three things happened at once. First, everything slowed down. Not like in a movie where there's a dramatic slow motion sequence and the hero manages to escape. It was more like an adrenaline fuelled panic where everything felt terrifying but nothing felt real. Secondly, Victor's head connected with the brick wall behind him, his skull hitting off of the stones with a deafening crack, before he slumped to the ground, only somewhat conscious. And thirdly, a voice yelled from the end of the street – "Hey!"

"Shit," John muttered. The two officers approached them quickly, one crouching down to check on Victor. The second officer turned to the two boys. Sherlock could hardly hear him asking them to stand with their backs to the wall, over the pounding of his heart which seemed to be vibrating in his ears.

"Shit, Sherlock, what've we done?" John muttered. The second officer, Lestrade, he had said, was looking them up and down. He looked slightly too amused for Sherlock to be worried, but he could hear the fear in John's voice.

"Names?"

"John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes." Lestrade smirked and jotted down their names in his notebook.

"Date of birth?"

"6th January 2000," Sherlock muttered.

"29th September 1999."

"And you're both 16? You don't look 16," Lestrade directed at Sherlock.

"And you don't look like someone who'd be wasting his time interrogating children, when you could instead catch your wife in bed with another man."

"What did you just say?" Lestrade's ears turned pink, his eyes steely, and John let out an exasperated sigh beside him.

"You can't be more than 30, but your hair is starting to turn grey, stress it seems, though also partially genetics. You have an authoritative air about your; you enjoy your job, so it's something else that's causing you stress – your home life. You obviously know that your wife is having an affair, the way you've been fiddling with your wedding ring tells me that, but you still wear it. That shows your commitment – you still want to be with her but yet you know that she doesn't feel the same commitment as you, therefore showing why you're more inclined to feel as stressed today; because you're subconsciously thinking about her now. Most likely because you're suspicious she's cheating on you again, right now, as we speak."

Everyone was looking at Sherlock, opened-mouthed, except John, who was laughing silently. Even though he knew this was the worst timing, he couldn't help but laugh; of course Sherlock Holmes would be able to deduce the officer standing in front of them, mid-way through a possible arrest.

"How the hell did you know that?" Any hint of authority had slipped away now, and Lestrade was bewildered, staring at Sherlock as though he was an alien, which to be fair, didn't seem far from the truth right now.

"I didn't know, I saw. Observation, deduction. It's simple really."

"Oh shut up you pompous prick," John laughed. Sherlock was glad that John at least found it amusing; he'd expected anger.

"That's bloody fantastic, that is." The man, Lestrade didn't even seem to be joking when he said that. The other officer, a woman, was looking between Lestrade and Sherlock, but she didn't appear to be as amused. "Right okay, anyway... What School do you go to?"

"St Bart's Academy, Harrow."

They continued like this for another five minutes, while the second police officer began interrogating Victor, who was giving rather half-arsed answers, John thought to himself. And then, they were allowed to go – they'd be issued with a stern warning from Officer Lestrade and told to stay out of trouble, but not before Sherlock was asked a few more questions about his 'talents'.

"So how do you really do it? How do you notice these things?"

"It just sort of happens. I look at people and I see the pieces of information that are given to me."

"It must be really useful, it's the sort of thing you'd need to become a police officer," Lestrade suggested.

"Or a detective," he said pointedly. "Specifically, a consulting-detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, you would consult me." John had heard this line before but he still found it to be one of the most pretentious yet hilarious things Sherlock had said.

"I doubt you're that good," Lestrade laughed.

Ten minutes later, however, he disagreed. Sherlock had received a job offer that Lestrade didn't want anyone else to know about. Apparently it wasn't exactly legal, but if he ever wanted some work experience in solving minor crimes, he just had to "stick his head in the door", and "'ask for Officer Lestrade".

When they finally left, Sherlock felt positively gleeful. He walked with his head slightly higher, his footsteps slightly more bouncy, and he was talking more than he ever had before. He'd even taken value in John's opinion, which had shocked the smaller boy.

"Do you want to get coffee?" Sherlock asked. "I know the perfect café."

They walked back the way they had come into the more familiar streets of central London. On the way, John picked Sherlock's brains on his family. Sherlock was more honest than he'd been with anyone; he had a mother and a father, both fairly ordinary people who kept to themselves, and had passed their antisocial trait onto their children. Sherlock also found himself grudgingly admitting that he had a brother who was, most definitely, a colossal prick. He decided not to mention to John that it was Mycroft who had kidnapped him, but instead chose to talk more about his parents. His mother was apparently the source of both of her sons' brilliance, being an ex-mathematician herself, but in Sherlock's high opinion neither of his parents could deduce quite like Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

When the two boys had reached the little café and ordered their drinks, they found a booth by the window and continued their conversation. Sherlock decided to turn the topic to John, keen to find out what he wasn't able to guess.

"What about your family?" He asked this in his gentle tone, the one that he used for persuading and getting information out of people. Sherlock knew that he wasn't being malicious and that he was just curious, but somehow the guilt was burning at the back of his throat when he used this personality against the boy before him.

"Well, you know it's just me, Mum and Harry." He paused. "And you know that Mum is, well, she's…" John took a deep breath, and tried to steady his voice. "She's an alcoholic and well, not exactly what you'd call a good mother. But it isn't her fault. Ii know that, but somehow I still blame her and I know I shouldn't because it isn't fair." He pinched the bridge of his nose as his voice trailed off.

"We moved here just before Christmas, as school ended. We lived in a council estate in Peckham, but we all agreed we needed a fresh start. My mum had always felt as though she had to stay there, in case my dad came back, but he never did. He left when I was five. He's the reason mum's an alcoholic. They'd been together since they were teenagers; my grandparents never approved so we don't see them anymore. My mum chose my dad over them because she was 'in love'. She got pregnant with me when she was 19, dad was 20, and they weren't ready to be parents. There were a lot of arguments when I was little. I don't really remember them though. Harry came three years later, and things started to fall into place, apart from the drinking.

"We were always looked after; Dad had a job working in a garage while Mum stayed at home looking after us. We were always fed, we were taught manners and we knew how to behave. We went to nursery and then to school, and even after Dad left things sort of just went on. But mum drank more, and it was never a happy household. There were always some strange men around the house; mum's drinking buddies that she'd met at the pub when she left us home alone on Saturday nights. I used to sit and try to get Harry to stop crying when mum first started to leave at nights; I was 8, she was 5.

The sun was sitting low in the sky now, and Sherlock found that he had absolutely nothing to say, so instead he stood, slowly, and made his way to the door. John followed behind him. Sherlock decided it best not to acknowledge what John had told him with anything but a smile, and treating him as he always would.

"We should probably head back now." He used his gentle voice again, this time for comfort, not persuasion. It had the desired effect.

"Yeah, yeah you're right." John smiled back at him. "You know if I'm honest, I'm surprised you haven't run away screaming." He hesitated. He was always hesitating; a lifetime of having to be careful of what he said, Sherlock presumed. "So, y'know… thanks."

"No," Sherlock turned to look at the boy beside him. "Thank you."


	8. Carl Powers

**Chapter Eight – Carl Powers**

Over the next week in school, Sherlock began to notice changes, or rather one main change; people were acknowledging him. Well, they didn't exactly acknowledge him, but they acknowledged John Watson, who was almost always by his side. John was becoming popular with more or less everyone, teachers included. Since his first few weeks here, he had grown in confidence and was now the newcomer to the rugby team, nearly top of all his classes (but never beating Sherlock), and most noticeably, he was kind to everyone as far as Sherlock could see.

Sherlock had also seen that, despite her alcoholism, John's mother had managed to get a job; John had a new pair of shoes that he wore to school instead of his old trainers and by the look of both John and Harry's school shirts, they had bought a new iron too. Sherlock wondered if John's appearance was partially to blame for the shyness that had engulfed him when he had arrived here, but nonetheless, he knew that the timid boy who had first arrived here was not the John Watson everyone knew now.

And everyone knew that John spent time with Sherlock, but not everyone was happy about it. On one particular afternoon, Anderson and his little gang had made a special effort to corner John outside the locker rooms as he left to go to lunch.

"You're not his friend, you know. He doesn't have friends. So what are you?"

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business." John swung his mud-splattered bag onto his shoulder and pushed past the group of boys.

"I can give you one piece of advice, John. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes, he's a psychopath, and he'll get bored." John rolled his eyes. "No, he will, and he will leave you behind. You don't know him, but we do. He has never had friends, and he's never wanted them; Sherlock Holmes operates alone because he does not like other people, and other people do not like him. That's the way it is, and that's the way it always will be."

"That's not the way it has to be," and with that he left.

Sherlock sat hunched over at his desk, three textbooks open in front of him, his microscope beside him, the lights low but the curtains wide and the window open, with his head in his hands. His laptop screen was far too bright but he wasn't looking at it anymore. He wasn't entirely sure what time it was, but then he wasn't sure when he had sat down, or how long he'd been sitting there. Or actually, what day it was. He'd been pacing again, in his head, searching the same corridors of his mind palace but he was coming up blank. He couldn't seem to focus.

It had been on the news, he thought. Had it been on when he went down for dinner? Possibly. Had he even had dinner? He wasn't sure. He vaguely remembered something about bacon. No bacon was usually a breakfast dish. Wasn't it? Not important.

But yes, the news. A police report. A suspicious police report. A very suspicious one. He read an article on it on his laptop when he had come upstairs. He remembered; it was about a boy, 11, called Carl Powers who had drowned at a school swimming tournament. Sherlock found this very unlikely – the police claimed that the boy had suffered some form of fit in the water and had died before the medical team had been able to help. The boy had no history of any medical complications, and it seemed very obvious to Sherlock that if someone was competing in a _swimming_ gala, it was very unlikely that they could just drown. They would be able to swim, and well at that. This made Sherlock suspect foul play, because foul play was always involved; it's what makes the criminal world tick.

The criminal world, though? A professional criminal caused this? Or someone was killing for the first time? Because this had to be murder, but Sherlock didn't know how. Or why, for that matter. Why would someone want to murder an eleven year old at a swimming gala? Unless it was purely for the sake of competition. But then according to reports, nobody else in the pool had had any interaction with Carl in the water, so whatever happened must've happened before, if it was indeed murder. It might have been parents of a competitor, but then what parents would be so determined for their child to win that they'd kill someone else's? Odd.

Sherlock sighed. There were too many variables, too many options, and he couldn't _think._ He needed to narrow it down but he didn't know _how._ Because there was information missing. There was always information missing from cases like this. News companies were useless, publishing stories for prophet and neglecting to report on the details, on the bits that mattered. More so than that, the police hadn't figured it out, so the news companies hadn't figured out what to say. Everyone was useless.

The dark was still lingering slightly outside, but the sky had lightened considerably, and the streetlights were just a dull glow, their light no longer seeping in through the window. Sherlock Holmes was slowly waking, rising from his stiff position, slumped over at his desk, having succumbed to sleep at some point after four o'clock. It was nearly half seven in the morning, and the world would appear to be asleep for just another hour before the dull daily routine swung into action. People would be waking from their slumber, breakfast would be getting eaten, cars would be started and the world would spin on. If anything it was a thankless routine that the world conformed too, and as much as he despised it, and as hard as he tried not to, Sherlock rose and fell with everyone else.

After a shower, he went down the stairs and made himself a coffee, ignoring his mother's shuffling and rustling around the kitchen, and ignoring his father's low singing over the sound of Thursday morning radio. It was all incredibly annoying, so he slipped back upstairs, mug in hand, to get ready for another day.

He finished his coffee, changed into his uniform and lifted his phone off his bedside table. He had four notifications; 3 from John and 1 from a news app, with more details on the Carl Powers case. Of course, there was no new information released this morning, he had checked the news again, but he could not take his mind of this boy's death. It did not make sense. Instead of opening the news app, he opened John's texts.

 _ **Sherlock, you won't believe what happened when I was walking home from school  
today!**_

It had been sent at 4.33pm yesterday.

 _ **Sherlock? Don't tell me you've lost your blood phone again?**_

That one had been sent at 9.49pm.

 _ **You know I'm starting to worry that you've been killed or something. Text me when  
you get this.**_

The last one had been sent this morning, four minutes before Sherlock had lifted his phone. He didn't remember receiving these texts, but then he didn't remember much after he caught a glimpse of the news report on the TV when he came in the door at ten past four. He just remembered going into his room, closing the door, and turning around to face his mind palace.

He quickly tapped out a reply, and pulled his bag over his shoulder.

 **I've not been killed, but I rather fear someone else has. I think I have a case – I need  
to speak to Lestrade.**

 **SH**

As he was turning down his street onto the main road, his phone buzzed in his inside pocket.

 _ **What do you mean someone's been killed? Someone we know? What the hell is  
going on Sherlock?**_

 **You might have seen it on the news. Maybe. Do you even watch the news?  
Anyway, a boy, aged eleven, drowned at a swimming gala, by the time the medical  
crew got to him he was dead.**

 **SH**

 _ **That doesn't sound like murder to me, mate. Just sounds like the boy was unlucky.**_

John Watson; ever sceptical when it came to seeing the bad side of people. He was always seeing the good in everyone.

 **Don't be stupid John, of course it was murder.**

 **SH**

He could see the school now, its shadow looming over the gates, like a black cloud spoiling a sunny day. He could also see John Watson walking towards the same gate, looking at Sherlock as though he was absolutely insane. Which, to be fair, he probably seemed.

"What the _hell_ are you on about?"

"Carl Powers, John, don't you see?"

"Well, no, I don't, because according to Sherlock Holmes, I'm too stupid to understand a God damn thing!"

"Oh, don't be like that, everyone's an idiot, you're not special. And you're not Anderson, thank God for that."

"Doesn't mean that you have to insult everyone who doesn't share your massive intellect!" They had reached the front door, and as they stepped into the warm air, Sherlock realised that everyone within earshot was looking at them.

"John, calm down. I need you to listen, I need you to hear me out, and God knows nobody else will if you won't."

"Okay, fine. I'm listening." He pulled out the chair from under Sherlock's desk in the lab, and Sherlock shut the door behind him. They had 15 minutes before the bell would ring to go to first period.

"The boy, Carl Powers was definitely murdered. An eleven year old boy from Brighton who had travelled to London to compete in a swimming tournament? He hadn't done anything wrong, he wasn't even from nearby, but he could swim, and he could swim well. Swimmers don't tend to drown for no reason, John, and this boy has no record of any medical complications. The BBC, and ITV, and the papers are all saying he had a seizure, but something must've caused it and I don't know what. He was especially good – expected to win the 1000m freestyle, according to the newspaper – so why was he killed? Competition? Maybe. I don't have enough information to go on but it's being reported as an accident, and it was definitely not an accident, I can tell."

John had stopped looking annoyed now, and instead looked to be deep in thought. "So, what you're saying is that an eleven year old boy from Brighton was murdered at a swimming gala because someone didn't want him to win first place?"

"That is exactly what I'm saying," Sherlock said softly. "And I need to find out why. I need to talk to Lestrade."

"Do you know how many times we've skipped classes in the last month?"

"What's that got to do with anything? This is important John."

"Five times. That may not seem like a big number to you, but I'd like to actually pass my exams, so please just wait. I know this is important, but can it wait just 6 more hours? Then we can go into the police station together, and we can talk to Lestrade."

"Fine, but this will be the longest 6 hours I have ever lived, and I'm holding that against you."

"You hold everything against me, you bastard."

Sherlock smirked. "True."

Sherlock could not remember having had a worse day. John was being purposefully difficult by keeping him away from the one thing that had interested him most. He had never had this much enjoyment from one puzzle, but then none of the puzzles he had solved before had involved a real murder. It was difficult and he didn't know what he was trying to work out but he knew that if he found it easy then it would be no fun at all. He just had to figure out the key points.

That's how he spent the train journey back into the city. John sat next to him in silence, while he thought it through, once, twice, too many times. Who would kill an innocent eleven year old boy? Truthfully he had no idea. Who would kill anyone?

Serial Killers. They murdered people all the time. But there had been no other incident like this reported, not in a swimming pool and not the murder of a child. Not a serial killer then.

Soldiers killed people too. Usually in not in Britain though. This incident had nothing to do with the army or any soldiers. Soldiers hadn't been mentioned at all, actually. So not a soldier.

Bad drivers killed people. But that was usually an accident. And murder by car rarely occurred in a swimming pool. Definitely not a bad driver.

Actors killed people. Well not really, but it happened a lot on screen, if any of the movies Sherlock had seen were anything to go by.

Apparently more or less everyone was a killer.

"Focus Sherlock. You're not thinking. You're distracted. If you don't stay focused you'll never figure it out. You're too stupid to figure it out anyway, Sherlock. You always were the stupid one."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. He opened his eyes. John was looking at him. In fact, almost everyone in the train carriage was looking at him.

"You alright, Sherlock?"

"Fine."

"You don't sound fine, what is it?"

"I need more information. I can't think." He was all too aware that he was nearly shouting, but he was beginning to worry that he was going insane.

"Sherlock, we're going to Scotland Yard and we're going to get information, and you'll be able to solve this case."

"I need information now, John." He was practically whining now. John sighed but ignored him, so Sherlock instead put his fingers to his chin and drifted back inside his head until the journey was over.

Almost as soon as the doors had opened, Sherlock had jumped onto the platform, disappearing into the crowd of people bustling around him and hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that John was somewhere close behind him. When John eventually caught up with him he was standing next to a map of all of London's Underground stations. People were milling all around them, waiting for their trains, looking far too free from stress as they sipped on their coffee. Sherlock closed his eyes, and pressed his fingers to his temples.

"What is it?"

"I can't remember if there's a direct line to St James' Park," he muttered in a low frustrated tone. John scanned the map.

"Sherlock, look. It's on the Circle line, so is Euston Underground."

"Yes, but it only runs at certain times, I don't think St James' Park is on that route just now," Sherlock hissed.

"Sherlock," John said patiently. "Look at the timetable," he gestured up to the illuminated board above their heads.

"Circle line - it arrives here at ten past five. What time is it?"

"It's four minutes past five." There was a moment's pause before Sherlock sprang into action. "Well come on then," he said, and he strolled off across the station, round a corner, John following close behind. Once they were down the stairs and into the station, they got their tickets from the little machine and pushed through the little barrier. They stood waiting in the cold air.

"So you really have no idea who's behind this, if it even is a murder?"

"Well I have theories of course, nothing concrete. Nothing is ever concrete until you have proof."

"Innocent until proven guilty?"

"Technically? Yep," he said, popping the 'p'. "But I disagree."

"You like to do that."

"Do I? I hadn't noticed," Sherlock smirked.

"You know you're a big-headed git, right? Walking about, large as bloody life, thinking you're the smartest man in the room," John laughed. "Problem is you're usually right." John turned to look down into the tunnel. Sherlock realised he hadn't really looked at John today. Not properly. He'd been to focused on the case, and he hadn't really given much of a thought to the 16 year old that had decided to come to London with him, so he could solve a murder. John's sandy blonde hair was messy from the wind, but his eyes were bright and alert. Sherlock realised that he was actually enjoying himself – he wasn't just being dragged around by the 'madman wannabe detective'; he wouldn't be here if he didn't want to be. That was more of a comfort to Sherlock than he'd ever expected.

When they were on the tube, Sherlock was quiet. Silent. He was re-reading the article that he'd read last night. Trying to find any clues as to what had happened. Trying to read between the lines, but it was giving nothing.

" _Tragedy hit a school swimming tournament…"_ Tragedy. To Sherlock, it seemed to be worded as though what had happened was an accident, which meant the police were probably treating it as such.

" _Staff at the Atwill-Porter Baths have insisted that there was no negligence on the part of either themselves or the event organisers, though an enquiry will naturally take place."_ Sherlock could imagine the officers walking around the pool, chatting about their lunch, rifling through Carl Powers' possessions as though it was no big deal because they thought it had been an accident. The thought angered him.

Why were people who were completely blind to the workings of the world employed to try and solve crimes. Even more than that, they couldn't figure out when a crime had actually happened. Why were they all so stupid? Why do they never just stop and think? Why do people never just stop and think?

His train of thought was interrupted by the train slowly beginning to grind to a halt. The doors slid open and Sherlock and John jumped onto the platform, and followed the staircase up onto the main road. He knew they were nearly there now, but Sherlock felt like each second that ticked by was more agonizing than the last. He was so eager to finally have a puzzle, to have a challenge. He would finally get to take the clues and the pieces of information and evidence, and sort them; put them together, figure it out.

When they reached the top of the steps, they turned a corner and emerged from the underground into the fresh air. Across the road, swivelling on its pole was the 'New Scotland Yard' sign. Sherlock could imagine that this would one day become his home from home, where he'd spent countless days and nights just sifting through evidence, working it all out. He could hardly wait. The two boys crossed the road, Sherlock slightly ahead of John, both of them eager; their eyes alight with curiosity as they disappeared through the double doors and stepped into the unknown.


End file.
